THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


GREEN  BRANCHES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd, 

TORONTO 


(braan  ^ranc^es 


By 


3ame5  Stephens 

Author  of  "The  Hill  of  Vision,"  "Songs 

FROM  THE  Clay,"  "The  Crock 

OF  Gold,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1916 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  printed.  Published  October,  1916. 


OJ  this  first  edition  500  copies  have  been 
printed  from  type. 


CONTENTS 

THE  AUTUMN  IN  IRELAND: 
1915 

THE   SPRING    IN    IRELAND: 
1916 

JOY  BE  WITH  US 

GREEN  BRANCHES 


1915 
(I) 

It  may  be  on  a  quiet  mountain- 
top, 

Or  in  a  valley  folded  among  hills 

You  take  your  path,  and  often  you 
will  stop 

To  hear  the  pleasant  chatter  of  the 
rills, 

The  piping  of  a  wind  in  branches 
green, 

The  murmuring  of  widely-lifted 
spray 

As  long  boughs  swing 

And  hear  the  twittering 

Of  drowsy  birds  when  the  great 

sun  is  seen 
Climbing  the  steep  horizon  to  the 

day. 

The  lovely  moon  trailing  her  silver 

dress 
By  quiet  waters.  Each  living  star 
Moving  apart  in  holy  quietness, 
Sphere  over  golden  sphere  moving 

afar, 
These  I  can  see; 
And  the  unquiet  zone 
Rolling  in  snow  along  the  edge  of 

sight. 
The  world  is  very  fair,  and  I  am 

free 
To  see  its  beauty  and  to  be 
In  solitude,  and  quite  forget,  and 

quite 


Lose  out  of  memory  all  I  have 

known 
Of  everything  but  this. 

(2) 

Straying  apart  in  sad  and  mourn- 
ful way, 

Alone,  or  with  my  heart  for  com- 
pany. 

Keeping  the  tone  of  a  dejected  day 

And  a  bewilderment  that  came  to 
me; 

I  said — The  Spring 

Will  never  come  again,  and  there  is 
end 

Of  everything. 

Day  after  day 

The  sap  will  ebb  away  from  the 
great  tree, 


And  when  the  sap  is  gone 
Then  piteously 
She  tumbles  to  the  clay: 
And  we  say  only — Such  a  one 
Had  pleasant  shade,  but  there  is 
end  of  her. — 

And  you,  and  even  you,  the  year 
Will  drain  and  dry,  and  you  will 
disappear. 

Then  to  my  heart  there  came  so 
wild  a  stir. 

And  such  great  pity  and  astonish- 
ment, 

And  such  a  start  of  fear  and  woe 
had  I. 

That  where  I  went  I  did  not  know, 

And  only  this  did  know, 

That  you  could  die. 


(3) 

I  would  have  liked  to  sing  from 

fuller  throat 
To  you  who  sang  so  well,  but  here 

I  stay 
Resting  the  music  on  a  falling  note, 
And  hear  it  die  away  and  die  away, 
With  beauty  unrehearsed,  and  life 

and  love 
Unsung. 

For  I  had  clung, 

With  what  of  laughter  and  of 
eagerness, 

Unto  the  hope  that  I  might  chance 
to  be 

The  maker  of  a  music  nothing  less 

Than  those  great  poets  of  anti- 
quity, 


Who  sang  of  clouds  and  winds,  of 

hills  and  clods, 
Of  trees  and  streams,  and  of  the 

mind  of  man ; 
And  chaunted  too  the  universal 

gods. 
And  their  high  guardianship  since 

time  began; 
And  did  not  fail  before  a  theme 

although 
It  passed  the  reason. 

(4) 

I  heard  a  bird  sing  in  the  woods 

today 
A  failing  song. 

The  times  had  caught  on  him. 
In    autumn    boughs    he    tried    a 

wonted  lay, 


And  was  abashed  to  find  his  music 

grim 
As  the  crows  song. 
Then,  when  I  raised  an  air 
To  comfort  him, 
I  wretched  was  to  hear 
The  crow  did  croak  and  chatter 

everywhere 
Inside  my  ear 

And  so,  behold, 

I  am  a  saddened  elf; 

And,  as  a  deer 

Flies  timid  y  to  shade, 

I  fly  to  laughter  and  I  hide  myse  f , 

And  couch  me  in  the  coverts  that  I 

made 
Against  those  bold  ambitions,  and 

forswear 
The  palm,  the  prize,  or  what  it  is 

of  gear 

A  poet  gets  with  his  appointed 

share 
Of  bread  and  beer. 

(5) 

Upon  the  grass  I  drop  this  tuneful 
reed, 

And  turn  from  it  aside,  and  turn 
from  more 

That  I  had  fancied  to  be  mine  in- 
deed 

Beyond  all  reclamation.  See  the 
door 

Set  in  the  boundary  wall  yawns 
windily, 

It  will  be  shut  when  I  have  wan- 
dered through. 

And  open  will  no  more  again  for  me 

This  side  of  life  whatever  thing  I 
do. 


And  so,  good-bye,  and  so,  good- 
night to  you. 
And  farewell  all.  Behold  the  lifted 

hand. 
And  the  long  last  look  upon  the 

view. 
And  the  last  glimpse  of  that  most 

lovely  land. 
And  thus  away  unto  the  mundane 

sphere, 
And  look  not  back  again  nor  turn 

anew. 
And  hear  no  more  that  laughter  at 

the  ear, 
And  sing  no  more  for  you. 


X5be 

Spring  In  Ireland: 

1916 

(1) 

Do  not  forget  my  charge  I  beg  of 

you; 
That  of  what  flow'rs  you  find  of 

fairest  hue 
And  sweetest  odour  you  do  gather 

those 
Are  best  of  all  the  best — A  fragrant 

rose, 
A  tall  calm  lily  from  the  waterside, 
A  half-blown  poppy  leaning  at  the 

side 
Its  graceful  head  to  dream  among 

the  corn. 


Forget-me-nots    that     seem     as 

though  the  morn 
Had  tumbled  down  and  grew  into 

the  clay. 
And  hawthorn  buds  that  swing 

along  the  way 
Easing  the  hearts  of  those  who  pass 

them  by 
Until  they  find  contentment— Do 

not  cry, 
But  gather  buds,  and  with  them 

greenery 
Of  slender  branches  taken  from  a 

tree 
Well  bannered  by  the  spring  that 

saw  them  fall: 
Then  you,  for  you  are  cleverest  of 

all 
Who  have  slim  fingers  and  are 

pitiful, 


Green  be  their  graves  and  green 
their  memory. 


Fragrance   and    beauty   come   in 

with  the  green, 
The  ragged  bushes  put  on  sweet 

attire, 
The  birds  forget  how  chill  these 

airs  have  been, 
The  clouds  bloom  out  again  and 

move  in  fire; 
Blue  is  the  dawn  of  day,  calm  is 

the  lake. 
And  merry  sounds  are  fitful  in  the 

morn; 
In  covert  deep  the  young  black- 
birds awake, 
They  shake  their  wings  and  sing 

upon  the  morn. 


At   springtime   of   the   year   you 

came  and  swung 
Green    flags    above    the    newly- 
greening  earth; 
Scarce  were  the  leaves  unfolded, 

they  were  young, 
Nor  had  outgrown  the  wrinkles  of 

their  birth: 
Comrades   they   thought  you  of 

their  pleasant  hour, 
They  had  but  glimpsed  the  sun 

when  they  saw  you; 
They  heard  your  songs  e'er  birds 

had  singing  power, 
And  drank  your  blood  e'er  that 

they  drank  the  dew. 

Then  you  went  down,  and  then, 

and  as  In  pain. 
The    Spring    affrighted    fled    her 

leafy  ways, 


The  clouds  came  to  the  earth  in 

gusty  rain, 
And  no  sun  shone  again  for  many 

days: 
And  day  by  day  they  told  that  one 

was  dead, 
And    day    by    day    the    season 

mourned  for  you, 
Until    that    count    of    woe    was 

finished. 
And  spring  remembered  all  was 

yet  to  do. 

She  came  with  mirth  of  wind  and 

eager  leaf. 
With  scampering  feet  and  reaching 

out  of  wings. 
She  laughed  among  the  boughs 

and  banished  grief. 


And  cared  again  for  all  her  baby 

things: 
Leading  along  the  joy  that  has  to 

be, 
Bidding  her  timid  buds  think  on 

the  May, 
And  told  that  summer  comes  with 

victory, 
And   told   the   hope  that   is   all 

creatures  stay. 

Go  Winter  now  unto  your  own 

abode, 
Your  time  is  done,  and  Spring  is 

conqueror 
Lift  up  with  all  your  gear  and  take 

your  road. 
For  she  is  here  and  brings  the  sun 

with  her; 


Now  are  we  resurrected,  now  are 

we, 
Who  lay  so  long  beneath  an  icy 

hand, 
New-risen  into  life  and  liberty. 
Because  the  Spring  is  come  into 

our  land 

(3) 

In  other  lands  they  may, 

With  public  joy  or  dole  along  the 

way, 
With  pomp  and  pagentry  and  loud 

lament 
Of  drums  and  trumpets,  and  with 

merriment 
Of  grateful  hearts,  lead  into  rest 

and  sted 
The  nation's  dead. 

If  we  had  drums  and  trumpets,  if 

we  had 
Aught  of  heroic  pitch  or  accent 

glad 
To  honour  you  as  bids  tradition 

old, 
With  banners  flung  or  draped  in 

mournful  fold, 
And  pacing  cortege;   these  would 

we  not  bring 
For  your  last  journeying. 

We  have  no  drums  or  trumpets; 

naught  have  we 
But  some  green  branches  taken 

from  a  tree. 
And  flowers  that  grow  at  large  in 

mead  and  vale; 
Nothing  of  choice  have  we,  or  of 

avail 


To  do  you  honour  as  our  honour 

deems, 
And  as  your  worth  beseems. 

Sleep  drums  and  trumpets  yet  a 

little  time: 
All  ends  and  all  begins,  and  there 

is  chime 
At  last  where  discord  was,  and  joy 

at  last 
Where  woe  wept  out  her  eyes :  be 

not  downcast, 
Here    is    prosperity    and    goodly 

cheer, 
For  life  does  follow  death,  and 

death  is  here. 


Joy  be  with  us,  and  honour  close 

the  tale; 
Now  do  we  dip  the  prow,  and 

shake  the  sail, 
And  take  the  wind,  and  bid  adieu 

to  rest. 


With  glad  endeavour  we  begin  the 

quest 
That  destiny  commands,  though 

where  we  go. 
Or  guided  by  what  star,  no  man 

doth  know. 


Unchartered   is   our   course,   our 
hearts  untried. 


And  we  may  weary  e'er  we  take 

the  tide, 
Or  make    fair    haven    from    the 

moaning  sea. 

Be  ye  propitous,  winds  of  destiny, 

On  us  at  first  blow  not  too  boister- 
ous bold; 

All  Ireland  hath  is  packed  into  this 
hold. 

Her  hopes  fly  at  the  peak.  Now  it 
is  dawn. 

And  we  away.  Be  with  us 
Mananaun. 


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